


John: whet your appetite.

by saffronHeliotrope



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dom/sub Play, M/M, Public Sex, Sex Toys, Vibrators, also my food kink is showing again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saffronHeliotrope/pseuds/saffronHeliotrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While you sip, while the waiter is distracted watching for your reaction, Dave shifts a little in his seat, helpless.</p><p>“That’s perfect,” you tell the waiter, who murmurs a <i>very good, sir</i> and pours both of your glasses.</p><p>“Too much for you?” you ask as the waiter disappears.</p><p>“Fuck no,” says Dave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John: whet your appetite.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for tumblr user [aethon](http://aethon.tumblr.com/), who was one of my first followers and is all-around awesome. Standard disclaimer: all I know about dom/sub relationships I learned from reading fanfic, so if I got anything wrong, I beg your indulgence.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, dropping a kiss on his cheek and sliding into your seat across from him. “Traffic was horrible.”

“I was starting to think you’d stood me up,” says Dave. “There’s nothing more pathetic than a jilted date. I was all ready to go home with the first guy who offered me a shoulder to cry on.”

“Don’t you dare even think of it,” you say. “Have you ordered yet?”

“Nope. Not even wine.”

“Good. Order the ribeye. It’s amazing.”

“Fuck you. I want the Chilean sea bass.”

“Dude, I mean it! Get the ribeye. You’ll love it, I swear.”

He scowls at you. You just grin at him. He holds your gaze for a moment through his shades, then rolls his eyes and leans back a little, looking around the crowded restaurant, tossing his head to sweep the hair off his forehead. The movement draws your attention. In the open collar of his shirt, you can see the edge of the soft black leather choker that lies at the base of his throat. You hide your smile in your water glass.

“You look good tonight,” you tell him. “That suit is a good one.”

“Damn well should be,” he says. “You paid enough for it.”

“And why _I’m_ the one buying _you_ fancy suits is a mystery for the ages. You ready?”

His smile comes and goes so fast you think you might have imagined it. “I was born ready, bro. I’m so ready I’ve got readiness oozing out my pores.”

“Glad to hear it.” You slip your hand into your pocket, thumb at the buttons on the little remote there, and flick one quickly, on, off.

His face is expressionless, but he can’t stop himself from twitching, just a little, as the vibrator in the plug buzzes to life for just an instant, on, off.

The waiter appears over your shoulder. “Evening, gentlemen,” he says. “May I take your orders?” He looks expectantly at Dave, and you take your hand out of your pocket, lay it on the table.

“I’ll have the ribeye, rare, please,” he says, handing over his menu, and you give him a warm smile.

“Very good. And for you, sir?”

“I’ll have the Chilean sea bass,” you say, and Dave glares at you. “And we’ll each start with the ahi tartare napoleon. And a bottle of the 2009 Tempranillo, please.”

“You’re an asshole,” says Dave when the waiter is gone.

“Maybe,” you say with a grin. “So what’s going on with the film? You had those production meetings today?” Your hand goes back in your pocket.

“Yeah,” he says, and launches in, telling you about his latest project.

You press the button on the remote.

He’s expecting it this time, and barely twitches -- just the tiniest hesitation in his speech. You reward him with a smile. He goes on, easily, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. The movie business is awful and he has to deal with no-talent hacks on the daily, but he comes alive when he talks about his vision, his inspiration, and you love to hear him get into it. And through it all, you’re playing with the vibe that’s lying snug against his prostate, on and off, cycling through oscillation patterns, keeping the intensity low, keeping him on a slow burn. After that first time, his voice never falters, he never shifts in his seat -- the only indication is that he’s holding on to the edge of the table with one outstretched hand, fingertips bloodless with the pressure of his grip -- but otherwise he’s calm, cool as ever.

You could just burst with warm pride.

He’s so focused on you, on keeping his words steady and even, that he doesn’t hear the waiter approach with the wine. As the man steps up with the bottle label-forward for you to inspect, you flick the vibrator up to its top speed for just a second. Dave’s knee hits the underside of the table. Dishes and glassware clatter loudly, and heads at nearby tables turn.

The waiter jumps to rescue a water glass that nearly overturns. You shut the vibe off completely while Dave apologizes. “Jeez, jumpy much?” you say loudly while the waiter opens the bottle. “You’re on a hair trigger tonight, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Work is nuts, big deadline, too much caffeine, you know how it is.” There’s a fine flush creeping up his cheeks and you want to rub over the skin with your thumbs to feel the heat of his blood climbing his face. The waiter pours you a taste of the wine, and you turn the vibe back on, steady and low. While you sip, while the waiter is distracted watching for your reaction, Dave shifts a little in his seat, helpless.

“That’s perfect,” you tell the waiter, who murmurs a _very good, sir_ and pours both of your glasses.

“Too much for you?” you ask as the waiter disappears.

“Fuck no,” says Dave. He busies himself with his wine while another server brings the napoleons, delicate towers of phyllo pastry, jewel-bright with raw tuna and avocado, garnished with microgreens. You smile at the woman and she retires smoothly. “I’m just thinking of all the people in this restaurant. The poor waiters, for chrissakes. You’re involving all of them in our sex life without their consent. Gross, John. That’s gross.”

“Mmm, that’s true,” you say as he picks up his fork. “Morally reprehensible, really. I feel just terrible. Left hand.”

“What?”

“Eat with your left hand.”

“You’re shitting me.”

As an answer you flick the vibrator off entirely. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat, switches his fork over to his left hand. You smile and turn the vibe back on, and he exhales hard, head tilted a little to the side.

“Go on, take a bite,” you say around a mouthful of your own. The tuna is rich and unctuous and melts in your mouth. “Don’t let your food get cold.”

Somehow he manages the wherewithal to glare at you. “It’s tartare, you philistine. It’s _supposed_ to be cold.”

“Don’t let it get warm, then, smartass. Go on.”

He drives the side of his fork down through the layers of flaky pastry and fish, hand shaking. The blush on his cheeks is more pronounced now. God, you love this, and you’re not a patient person, so you start some oscillations, deep and pulsing, at the frequency that you know drives him out of his mind.

It’s incredible. You watch, fascinated, while he tries to get his breathing stabilized, tries to keep his hand steady. The veneer of his composure is wearing thin and you’re just tapping at the glass, watching the cracks cobweb out from the center. He manages to get a bite to his mouth and bows his head a little while he chews and swallows, and now you’re the one shifting in your seat, because wow, watching Dave skate the edge of his self-control? One-way ticket to bonersville.

After his third bite he’s whining just a tiny bit on each exhale. “You’re doing so well,” you tell him softly. He reaches for his wine, and his hand is shaking. “Left hand,” you remind him, turning the speed down.

His hands spasm and he presses them flat against the tabletop. “Fuck, _John,”_ he whispers.

“Do it,” you say, letting a note of command slip into your voice. “Take a sip now. I know you can.”

Holding your gaze through his shades, he reaches out left-handed, takes his wine, swirls it carefully, and takes a sip. He sets the glass smoothly down, then licks at one errant drop of burgundy red in the corner of his mouth.

You grin, and turn the speed back up to just shy of what he needs. His shoulders hunch up and you can see the tremor of tension in his frame. You take another bite, savoring the rich savory flavors, and wash it down with wine. You know that look on his face -- inward-seeking, every iota of his attention focused on his impending climax. Which is yours to give or deny.

How lucky for him that you’re feeling generous.

You lean forward and say softly, “Are you close?”

He nods once, tightly.

“Do you want it?”

A whisper: “Oh God, yes.”

“Restaurants with tablecloths are the best,” you tell him, toeing your shoe off under the table. “Spread.”

He shifts in his seat as he opens his legs, whimpering a little under his breath. His hands are balled into fists on the table.

You stretch your leg out and rest your foot softly against his crotch, not pushing, just enough to feel the insistent hardness of his cock through his pants. His hips curl minutely with each oscillation of the vibrator, nudging gently against the seam of his trousers, against the sole of your foot. What a beauty, what a treasure. He only takes what you give him.

You lean forward and cover his hand with yours. “You’re amazing,” you tell him, your voice pitched low so only he can hear. “I wish it were my fingers or my cock inside you right now. If I could, I’d have you on the table in a heartbeat. I’d show everyone in this place how good you are, how brilliant and gorgeous you are, how you’re _mine_.” If you were at home, you’d be rubbing your fingers against the base of his cock behind his balls, so he could feel the pressure both inside and out. Here, you settle for pressing the ball of your foot against the underside of his dick. His head drops back ever-so-slightly, and you want to run your tongue down the lines of his throat. You will, later. “ _Now_ , Dave,” you say instead.

And that does it. You can see his body lock up, and he presses forward against you with one little tremor, then one more. His cock pulses against your foot. He’s absolutely silent. The glassware on the table doesn’t even clink. No one bats an eye in your direction.

As he comes down the other side, you pull back and gradually crank down the intensity on the vibe, stepping him down, and when you finally click it completely off all the tension melts out of his shoulders. He drops back a little in his chair. Not lazy, not sloppy, not ever -- there’s easy grace in the long lines of his body even now. But he’s miles away from the high-strung workaholic tension he usually carries around, and the warmth of a job well done blossoms in your chest.

He tosses the hair off his forehead and shoots you a crooked smile, the well-fucked smile that you know so well and love so much. He reaches for his wine, holds up his glass. “Cheers,” he says, and takes a sip, and if the glass trembles a little on its way to his mouth, well, you’re the only one who gets to know why.

He’s holding it in his left hand. Good God, he’s _perfect._

“Button your jacket, you decadent shithead,” you say, laughing.

When your entrées arrive, you swap plates with him, and he feeds you bites of sea bass right off his fork.

 


End file.
